Sorcha Gille
by spirithamburger
Summary: It was an effort to save his marriage. Kurt certainly did not INTEND to accidentally fall back in time or attract the attention of a roguish Highland lord. And falling in love definitely wasn't part of his plan. Klaine AU inspired by "Outlander".
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This story is loosely based on Diana Gabaldon's wonderful novel, "Outlander". Initial Kurbastian, eventual Klaine. Future chapters will have attempted/actual non-con. Though primarily this is just a shameless ploy to write Klaine in kilts. Warnings for this chapter include Kurbastian. That's it, really.

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><p>"See, when <em>I<em> hear the phrase "second honeymoon", I think beaches of white sand, glorious year-round sunshine and attractive island ladies bringing me drinks in hollowed-out pineapples."

They'd been having this conversation since the plane took off from New York and now, midway over the Atlantic, Kurt was ready to make use of that emergency exit. Without looking up from his magazine, focusing his eyes on a Burberry ad and making use of his deep breathing techniques, he shifted slightly away from his husband and remarked calmly, "I'm allergic to pineapples. And you're gay."

"I can appreciate women when they're smiling and holding hollowed-out pineapples." Stretching his arms over his head with a melodramatic groan, Kurt's husband of five years, Sebastian, smacked his hand on the roof of the plane and immediately doubled over with a too-loud curse. Kurt cringed, glancing around in an unfortunately-well-practiced motion, making certain there were no small children in earshot.

"Honey..." he said in an undertone, reaching over and gently grabbing onto Sebastian's wrist. "Let me see."

His husband drew away with a scowl, cradling his hand to his chest. Not for the first time, Kurt wondered how he'd managed to marry the man with the lowest pain threshold in the continental United States. But all he did was press his lips together and close his magazine. "Bas, I just want to see if -"

"If it's something you can discuss using words _specifically_ designed to make me feel idiotic?" Sebastian sniped back, shifting away and flexing his hand with another wince. "Can you take off the doctor's coat for five minutes at a time? Just five, really, that's all I'm asking."

And there it was. Even on their way to rekindle the lost spark in their marriage, they couldn't last a plane ride without fighting, always about the same things - Sebastian's immaturity, Kurt's excessive maturity, their jobs, their differences, everything that had once been exciting and now just _weighed_ heavily on Kurt's heart. The physician in him was worried about Sebastian's hand, the husband in him was fretting about what this fight could mean and the rest of him was just exhausted.

So he didn't rise to the bait, crossing one leg over the other and turning to look out the window. The view out it was the same as it had been for hours - endless blue sky, endless blue water, punctuated by puffy white clouds and the crests of rolling waves, respectively. Blue was a soothing color, one scientifically proven to calm people down. Maybe he should've let Sebastian sit by the window.

But no, because the other man was already sighing softly, moving closer again, their hips bumping together as he reached out and settled his long, slender fingers gently over Kurt's hand. "Hey," he murmured, gently, lips pressing to his husband's temple. "I'm sorry. I'm just ready to get off this dumb plane."

Kurt, like he had every time before, like he doubtlessly would every time in the future, softened immediately, the touch on his hand like a spark that melted his iciness. Because even now, even after all these years, even with the bickering and insults and cruel words slung back and forth, he loved Sebastian, loved him in a helpless sort of way. It was a love that wanted to fix and heal, the way he fixed and healed his patients, but Sebastian didn't have a broken leg or mono. He had sharp edges and an abrasive nature and a roving nature that not even years of marriage had been able to entirely tame.

And Kurt _couldn't_ fix him.

But Kurt wasn't thinking about that right now. He refused to let his mind wander there, to the three years they'd spent as virtual strangers, him in the midst of his residency out of state, Sebastian traveling constantly for his job. They'd only been married for a year when the opportunities had sprung up, and even now that things were slowed down and they were relatively settled in Manhattan, the awkwardness remained. Hence the trip.

Now, snuggling against Sebastian's shoulder, Kurt offered a bit of a hopeful smile. "Scotland's beautiful, Bas," he said, trying to remain upbeat, letting his bruised feelings be soothed by the cool hand rubbing circles into the small of his back. "It's green and full of history and culture and colorful locals and...leftovers from the Jurassic era."

"Mmm? What?" Sebastian had been reading the back of the magazine still lying in Kurt's lap, scarcely listening until this point. Now he frowned, nose wrinkling a little, fingers creeping around to pinch at Kurt's side. "Don't be stupid."

"I'm not stu-owww." Squirming away and swatting lightly at his husband's shoulder, Kurt assumed his best scowl, even as he inwardly gave a sigh of relief. Teasing, handsiness, playfulness, all very good signs. "There are theories that the Loch Ness monster is actually a relic from the age of the dinosaurs, who somehow survived all these years. They call them waterhorses in Scotland."

Sebastian rolled his eyes, feigning a yawn and tucking his arm back around Kurt's waist. "Fascinating. Well, if you see any triceratops's while I'm asleep, don't bother waking me. I'm not interested in anything but our pineapple-less hotel and attractive-women-less room." Then, lowering his voice and half-growling against Kurt's ear, "And hopefully my clothesless husband in the bed."

Kurt rolled his eyes, a gesture lost on Sebastian, whose eyes were already closed. Then he sighed, softer, turning back towards the window, ignoring the pang that had gone through him at the innuendo. Another thing that had suffered woefully in recent months - their sex life. It had almost been better during those three years of semi-separation, when they'd both get a night off and rush home for something almost resembling a one-night stand. Back then, everything had seemed quick and rushed and almost forbidden, and it was thrilling. But Kurt was almost 24 now, and he didn't want speedy and dirty. He wanted stability, safety, security.

Unfortunately, Sebastian was none of these things.

"Mmm." Shaking his head and opening his magazine carefully, not wanting to wake his dozing husband, Kurt settled down for the rest of the flight, keeping an eye on the window, waiting for the brilliant blue of sea and sky to give way to the emerald green of Scotland.

* * *

><p>Well. It was certainly <em>green.<em>

"I think you've been brain-snatched."

"I think you need to be quiet," Kurt retorted snippily, dropping his suitcase unceremoniously onto the ground and squinting a little. The squinting was a necessary reaction to the _brilliant_ lime green color of the small inn they were staying in. Sebastian had already produced a pair of sunglasses out of nowhere and slid them on, shaking his head in wonderment.

"If you'd asked me," he began melodramatically, to nobody in particular, ignoring Kurt's attempts to try and fish their reservation vouchers out of his bag, "a mere, oh...seven years ago, if the delicate little blushing virgin-"

"Oh my god, kill me now," Kurt sighed, finally snatching the corner of the printed-out information and giving a yank. The papers sprung free from the mess of magazines and breath mints and his woefully-out-of-range cell phone - though, of course, it was only the cell phone that clattered to the cobblestone street, ending up in five or six pieces.

"-who asked how to find Ms. Watson's English class," Sebastian continued, undaunted by the grisly death of his husband's phone, "whilst wearing the tightest pair of pants that the dress code would allow, would someday book a most-likely-flea-ridden room in a fluorescent green hotel in the middle of the Scottish highlands, I would've said you were crazy."

Down on his knees, carefully picking up the pieces of his phone, with a resigned sort of sigh (he'd been meaning to upgrade soon anyway), Kurt said with all the patience he could muster, "Would you please check us in, _darling?_"

Sebastian appeared to notice Kurt's plight for the first time, offering that crooked slanty grin that was a near-permanent fixture on his smug little meerkat face. "Sure thing, _sweetie_." With a pat on Kurt's head as he passed, he plucked the reservations from his husband's hand and walked into the hotel, whistling.

Kurt sighed again, sitting back on his heels and starting to try and fit together the bits of his phone. Once upon a time he'd found the whistling and the carelessness intriguing, charming even. After he'd transferred junior year, Sebastian had become a mixture of rival and mentor, driving him nuts in more ways than one. Had it been true affection or Stockholm Syndrome that had eventually driven them together?

_No, stop it,_ Kurt berated himself, standing and brushing his pants off, then picking up his suitcase again. _You aren't here to second-guess choices you made when you were eighteen. You're here to have a nice time with the man you're married to. Now cut it out._

Nodding firmly, he paused a moment to turn and glance up at the looming hills that surrounded the small village. They'd opted to stay in one of the less-populated villages - Inverness was the name - , rather than in Edinburgh or a larger city. They made their daily life in a big city, that wasn't what this vacation was for. It was an escape, a refuge from day-to-day life.

And it _was_ beautiful. The houses (lime-green inn excepted) were small and quaint and rustic, the people were friendly, if a bit hesitant - same-sex marriage had only been legal in Scotland for a couple years, so Kurt supposed they still weren't used to gay couples - and the broad sweeping sky, brilliant emerald hills and crystal-clear lochs were nearly enough to tempt even nature-phobic Kurt to "Sound of Music"-style frolicking.

Of course, before frolicking came recovery from jetlag. Sebastian had already managed to charm the innkeeper, a substantially enthusiastic woman who scarcely batted an eye at Kurt coming up to rest his head on his husband's shoulder. "Come along, then, ye're room's're right up tha stairs," she cooed in a thick brogue that broke through the sleep-deprived fog already settling around Kurt, drawing a small smile.

The room was clean, if spare and the bed creaked alarmingly as Sebastian threw himself on it, seconds after the innkeeper left. Kurt was a bit more delicate, settling on the edge and offering a small smile.

"So...you like it?" he ventured with a wavering smile.

"Mmm." Sebastian reached out, hooking his arm around Kurt's waist and tugging him down to his back. "It's swell."

Once, their closeness would've easily and naturally led to other activities, but now...now the first feeling of lips against his neck was enough to prompt Kurt to say, softly, almost apologetically - "I'm really tired, Bas."

There was a pause, then Sebastian sighed, pulling away. "...all right." He sat up, raking his fingers backwards through his hair, then pushing off the bed, setting the springs to creaking. "Go ahead and sleep. I'm gonna try and find the bathroom."

And then he was gone. And despite his self-professed - and completely honest - exhaustion, Kurt rolled onto his side, curling up and staring at the wall, wide-awake. After a moment, wherein Sebastian didn't return, he slowly got up and wandered to examine the view. Their room was set in the upstairs corner of the neon-colored inn, and while one window simply looked out onto the adjoining house, the other provided a nice picture of the town and street, as well as the crest of a hill rising above the town. If Kurt squinted, he could see what looked like a circle of dominoes, on the top of the hill.

_Rocks_, he realized after a moment. _They're some sort of rock circle, like Stonehenge._ He settled onto his knees in front of the window, resting his chin on his folded arms and gazing out the window. Despite the distance and the sheer amount of shrubbery on the hill (that would no doubt snag and tear at his clothes should he dare to venture up) he found himself drawn to the stones. Maybe that would be a good way to start the following day, by going up there.

With a laugh, Kurt closed his eyes, daring to imagine, for a moment, himself and Sebastian as intrepid explorers, like Indiana Jones and Marion Ravenwood, only wearing McQueen and Prada. That image alone was enough to calm him down, and he returned to the bed for some much-needed sleep.

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><p>ooc: Because I need more WIPs, right? XD This is inspiredbased on/an AU of the wonderful book "Outlander", which I highly recommend. Hope you all enjoy~ Also, the title is Scottish Gaelic (as far as I can tell) for "Bright Boy".


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Warnings for this chapter include Sebastian being an asshole.

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><p>The next day was bright and clear, with just the faintest nip in the air that reminded everyone not acclimated to Scotland weather to bring along a jacket, just in case. Kurt remarked on this over breakfast and was met with a smirking chuckle and a comment about how he always managed to relate things back to fashion. He replied with a biting comment about pneumonia and lack of sympathy, was promptly called a sadist and left the table in a huff.<p>

Needless to say, it wasn't the ideal way to start the morning.

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><p>"Where are you going?"<p>

Rather than answering, Sebastian just leaned against the doorframe, half-smiling at his husband, who was reclining on the bed with a precious _Vogue_ magazine spread open on his lap. "Is that your default setting? Like a sleep mode on a laptop?"

Kurt rolled his eyes, focusing his attention back on the lovely glossy pages. "I'm ignoring you now."

"So what else is new." The sting of the words abated somewhat under the affectionate kiss pressed to Kurt's temple, and the comforting weight of Sebastian resting against him. "I'm on my way to the library. Apparently one of the professors there has a particular interest in genealogy. Did you know I had ancestors who lived around here?"

With a heavy sigh, Kurt turned the page with a flick of his wrist. "Yes, Sebastian. I mentioned that fact, which I've known almost since I met you, at least sixteen thousand times when I was planning for this trip."

The sarcasm was either unnoticed, or entirely lost on Sebastian, who shrugged a little, sliding his hand down Kurt's side and toying with the hem of his self-designed-and-made-one-of-a-kind-will-you-please-keep-your-hands-_off_ black kilt. "I didn't realize your background checks were so in-depth. Why are you wearing this?"

Clearly any attempt at enriching himself would have to wait. Kurt closed the _Vogue_, reaching down and removing his husband's hand. It made him feel like some sort of demure Victorian-era virgin, but it really wasn't about the fingers creeping up his legging-clad leg. He just didn't like people messing with his clothes. That was it. That _had_ to be it. If he was avoiding Sebastian's touch, then something was irrevocably wrong.

Clearing his throat, Kurt prompted, gently, "You have a meeting to get to, right? To learn about the gallant Captain Smythe?"

Sebastian, who'd been frowning intently at Kurt's kilt like he could dissolve it by sheer force of will, brightened considerably. "Oh, right. I'll be back late. Don't wait up for me."

The words were said almost-teasingly, but they were familiar, _too_ familiar, calling up images of nights spent curled up in the king-sized bed, alone, then waking to reach out and feel the sheets, undented, unwarmed, and knowing that his husband hadn't come home. But Kurt pushed them away with a practiced effort, smiling and lifting his chin for the customary kiss good-bye.

"Okay. I think I'm going to explore the countryside a little. I saw some stones last night that looked interesting," he offered, half-hoping to tempt Sebastian into coming with him.

It was too much to hope for. His husband rolled his eyes, stealing another kiss, then sliding off the bed and grabbing his coat. "Ooo, _stones_. Livin' on the edge, babe."

And with that, he was gone, leaving Kurt to half-heartedly finish the magazine, scarcely seeing the bright pictures.

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><p>The walk cheered him up considerably. True, Kurt wasn't exactly an outdoorsy sort of fellow – spring showers had been known to send him fleeing for cover and the comfort of his flatscreen TV. But the air around Inverness was so clear and crisp that every color seemed more vivid, every breath had him drinking in more and more of the lush greens that surrounded him.<p>

Of course, by the time Kurt had scaled the hill rising above the town – and sacrificed one of his two pairs of leggings to the brambles and shrubbery – he was panting and out of breath. Not being outdoorsy directly translated into out of shape, at least when it came to hills. If only the steep slope leading up to the stone circle had been made out of 24-hour gym treadmills. He could've gotten up here in no time.

Wiping sweat off his forehead with a grimace and a wheeze, Kurt stumbled over to sit on one of the stones, somewhat amazed that the whole area wasn't already corded off as a historical landmark. Anyone could come up and graffiti over the rocks, carving "JP LUVS SW" into the hulking remnants of another age.

And yet…as he sat there, one hand resting on his temporary seat, Kurt couldn't shake the faint feeling of unease, the electric, jarring feeling in the air that hung around the circle of stones. It was almost akin to the way a dentist's drill felt – buzzing, vibrating, right down to his very bones.

Despite his breathlessness, Kurt stood, quickly, unconsciously wiping his hand off on his kilt and eying the stones warily. Yes, they were very majestic and imposing and had no doubt been the site of many bloody rituals over the years. He was feeling quite cultured enough for the day, he decided, turning on his heel and intending to pick his way back down the hill.

However, he was prevented from sinking back into a _Vogue_-influenced depression by the sudden appearance of a woman, whom he unceremoniously collided with, sending them both sprawling. She ended up on her back, golden hair and white dress vivid against the grass, and Kurt stumbled back against the stone, both hands coming to rest on it and -

- and oh, oh it was even _worse_ this time, it was like sticking his finger in a socket, a jolting that shot up his spine and out his fingertips and maybe he'd hit his head on the rock, because it was suddenly aching and ringing, churning his stomach, blurring his vision and everything was stretching out taut like a rubber band, stretching and straining and about to snap and –-

And then, mercifully, his hands were grasped and he was pulled to his feet and a soft, anxious voice was exclaiming, "Oh, you poor thing, are you all right? Did you hurt yourself? I didn't mean to sneak up on you like that…"

It was the hands brushing at his clothes that really brought Kurt back to the present, with a quick shake of his head and a gentle warding-off of the well-meaning touches. "No, no, I'm fine…"

The woman gave a soft, embarrassed sort of sigh, stepping back and folding her hands. "I'm really very sorry," she ventured, tilting her head to one side. Kurt chanced a glance at her, already disgruntled from the climb and the odd sensation the stone had given him.

She didn't _look_ sorry. If anything, standing there with the wind playing with the lace on her collar, toying at the ends of her long blonde hair, she looked like she'd just stumbled upon something endlessly amusing. She was positively _serene._

"It's fine," Kurt said again, with a harsh note of reproach that he didn't quite mean, wanting to remind her that she'd very nearly given him a concussion.

"Oh, good. I'm glad." She smiled, settling down on the stone and making Kurt wince involuntarily, in sympathy. "We're a long way from town, if you'd gotten hurt."

Kurt laughed, uneasily, crossing one foot behind the other, suddenly self-conscious about the holes in his leggings. "Well, I'm a doctor, so…I could've coached you through it."

Another smile, still with that amusement, that delight. "Wonderful. That's wonderful."

"Thank you." It seemed to be the proper thing to say. Kurt cleared his throat, gesturing at the stones. "Pretty up here. If a bit…unnerving?" It was a question, posed with a glance at the stone she was sitting on. He was still waiting for her to leap up, to wince, to give some sort of reaction that meant he hadn't imagined the weird effect of the rocks.

The woman – girl, she was young, young and beautiful and gazing at Kurt in a way that women just _didn't_ gaze at him – gave a soft laugh and a shrug. "I like to come up here in the mornings," she said, hair haloed by the breeze and the sunshine. "Especially mornings after a full moon. In olden days, people set their lives by the moon, and I've always loved sunrises, so…why not combine them?"

"...uh-huh." Kurt crossed his arms over himself, suddenly missing that light jacket that he'd predicted needing. "That's nice. It was nice to meet you. I really should be getting back now, though, so..."

She was up in a flash, her hand flying out, catching his arm, her bright eyes suddenly intent. "In the morning," she repeated, stepping close, almost too close, lacy pure-white dress blowing about her form, and Kurt suddenly wondered, wildly, how she wasn't freezing. "Remember, right in the morningtime. Right after a full moon, like the one tonight. When the sun rises. It's magical, Kurt."

With a nod and a smile, he slowly freed himself. "I'll remember," he said, already backing away, already thinking of his room and his bed and a mid-morning coffee.

He was halfway down the hill when it occurred to him that he hadn't told her his name.

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><p>"Kurt? Are you asleep?"<p>

There was an idiotic question if there ever was one. If he _had_ been asleep, how would he have answered? But, choosing to let it go, Kurt rolled over and squinted one eye open at Sebastian. "Not anymore. Why?"

The self-assured smirk was off his husband's face for once, replaced with a look that was almost…anxious. This was so out of character that Kurt opened the other eye, propping himself up on one elbow and frowning. Sebastian sighed, reaching out and running his fingertip along the collar of Kurt's custom monogrammed pajama's. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you…"

"I'm listening." That didn't sound good. In fact, it sounded very much like the beginning of another conversation they'd had, only a couple of weeks earlier, when Sebastian had broken the unwritten "if we don't talk about it, it doesn't exist" rule and questioned whether _this_ - meaning the last five years, meaning their life together, meaning their _marriage_ - was really going to work out.

But surely this wasn't the same thing. Surely this conversation was going to be about something completely unrelated to their relationship status. Sebastian wouldn't rehash that conversation now, not on account of a silly fight that morning. Besides, Kurt had been sure they'd made up already -– he'd gotten home, attempted to mend the holes in his leggings and listened all about Captain Alexander Bastian Smythe, who'd been an illustrious British commander during the Highlander uprisings of the early sixteenth century. They'd been fine. They _were_ fine.

Yet here was Sebastian, speaking haltingly, almost nervously, toying with the silk of Kurt's pajama's, looking everywhere but his husband's face. "We spent…a long time apart. When we were first married."

Sitting up, Kurt moved away, hugging his knees to his chest and hating where this conversation was going. _No, no, Bas, can't you leave it alone, can't you just love me and forget about everything else?_

"I remember," he said, softly.

Sebastian frowned slightly, then rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. His voice, when he spoke was very firm, emotionless. "I'm not naïve, Kurt. I know that…_things_ can happen when people aren't together very often. I understand that. And…I just want you to be honest with me. I want the truth."

Kurt had been nervously imagining his husband would say, but _this_ definitely hadn't even crossed his mind. He'd been expecting some sort of confession that would explain the condom wrappers in the car, the long disappearances, the distance he could almost see stretching between Sebastian and himself.

He had _not_ been expecting accusations, insinuations, everything short of Sebastian flat-out saying -

"You think I _cheated on you?_" Heedless of the thin walls, of the nosy innkeeper, of the other travelers sleeping next door, Kurt was out of bed, on his feet, toes instinctively curling away from the rough splintery floor as he all but shrieked the words.

"I didn't say that." Sebastian was already in damage control mode, standing and reaching out towards his husband. "I was just saying that…well, I know how things can get, when you're alone for a long time. You can get lonesome and-"

"And when I'm lonely, the _first thing_ I think of to do is _cheat on my husband_, right?" Kurt snapped, jerking away from Sebastian's outstretched hands, not even feeling the splinter of wood gouging into his heel. Then, as the other man dropped his arms to his sides, rolling his eyes, Kurt exhaled, shortly and sharply. "You know what, I'm not having this conversation at eleven-thirty at night. If you have anything else you want to accuse me of," _or confess_, his mind added, without his consent, "you can say it in the morning."

Swallowing tightly, hating the sudden stinging in his eyes, the uncontrollable tears welling up, because _how could he, how could he think such a thing_, Kurt gestured at the door. "I'm going to go sleep in the lounge."

But Sebastian was shaking his head, stony-faced, not even bothering to make eye contact. "Don't bother," he said shortly, already heading across the room. "I will. Goodnight, Kurt."

And he was gone.

Again.

And, too riled-up and tearful and hurt -– hurt like he'd been stabbed or shot or like some important vital organ had been ripped out of him, hurt like he'd never been before in his life -– Kurt sank into the chair by the window, hugging his knees to his chest and staring out at the near-midnight scenery.

Eventually his gaze focused on the hilltop, where the circle of stones stood, blurry from the tears in his eyes and the distortion of the glass window. But he was certain, even as he curled up tightly and let himself cry, that he could see flickering lights, like flames, and the silhouettes of people (_beautiful women in white_) dancing barefoot in the grass.

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><p>Sebastian wasn't in bed when Kurt awoke the next morning, neck stiff from sleeping in the chair, eyes scratchy from crying all night. He wasn't downstairs either, a fact which didn't escape the innkeeper's notice as she served Kurt breakfast with a sympathetic smile. Sympathy mixed with bewilderment, actually – perhaps in direct defiance of Sebastian's chronic dislike of any "girly" clothing, Kurt had worn another kilt, this one sorter, more hip-hugging and bright red.<p>

Fortunately he was used to those sorts of looks, giving a simple smile and nod, while trying to keep the greasy, fattening sausages as far as possible from the fresh strawberries. The food stuck in his throat, but he forced it down, hurrying through his coffee just as hastily.

He wasn't entirely sure what he was hurrying towards, really. Everything seemed sort of rushed, like if he didn't get somewhere before the early-morning sun got too much higher, he'd miss something important. It wasn't until Kurt was struggling up the hill towards the stones that he even had an inkling what he was rushing towards.

Unfortunately, rather than soothing or calming him, being in the middle of the circle only intensified the frenetic need. The humming, almost vibrating sensation in the air was worse today, pounding at Kurt's already-aching head and thrumming in his chest, staccato, like a heartbeat. He tried to distract himself by focusing on the charred pieces of wood in the center of the stones –- so, he hadn't imagined the firelight the previous night.

The previous night. With a sigh, Kurt sat down on one of the fallen stones, wincing aloud at the intensification of that horrible buzzing. He'd been trying not to think about it, not to wonder where Sebastian had disappeared to. His luggage had still been there when Kurt had woken up, so he hadn't left town. Maybe he was at the library again, discussing the exploits of Captain Smythe. Maybe after a day poring over old books and reading about two-century-old battles, he'd be in a better mood and more willing to talk.

Tugging off one of his knee-high boots, Kurt frowned at his foot, which had been throbbing all morning. Some gentle probing revealed the splinter he'd gotten the previous night, a thick bit of wood, buried right in the center of his heel. He knew he should probably leave it be and limp back down the hill to find more sterile equipment, but his fingernails went to work, absently tugging at the end of the splinter, while his mind wandered.

All marriages were salvageable. There was no such thing as an irreparable problem. Even if the thought of Sebastian in the arms of someone else tore at Kurt's insides, he could work past it. They could fix this. They _had_ to.

The bit of wood suddenly slipped free, and Kurt let out a soft gasp that was part sob at the sudden pain, lifting his hand and finding his fingertips bloodstained. He shuddered, dropping the bit of wood to the stone, then moving to wipe his hand off on his kilt.

However, the blood-soaked splinter landed just as the first rays of sun shone over the top of the easternmost stone and something…_shifted_. It was like the floor falling away, like an elevator dropping out from under Kurt's feet, and he stumbled up with a cry, feeling the very earth shudder beneath him. It felt like an earthquake, and he thought wildly that if he didn't get away from the ancient stones that one would fall and crush him. But the world wouldn't stop spinning and his knees were like jelly and he stumbled forward against the tallest, eastern stone, the one with a huge crack running right down the middle. His bloody hands smacked against the cool, smooth rock and -

- and it was back, that jolting, aching, ringing, churning, that rubber band being drawn out farther and farther, stretching beyond what it could, about to snap, only this time there wasn't anyone to yank Kurt back, so when it snapped, he went with it, falling and swirling through brilliant color, redblueyellowbrownwhite_green_, through blazing heat and light and finally landing in darkness.

* * *

><p>ooc: Here we go, enough exposition~ Blaine will make his first appearance next chapter, I promise. Also a disclaimer: I am not Scottish. All that I know about Scotland andor Inverness was gleaned from Outlander. Therefore, please forgive any inaccuracies. X3


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Warnings for this chapter include groping in a Smythe-ish manner, and bewilderment.

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><p>The world finally stopped spinning, and Kurt found himself in an exceptionally undignified position, upside-down in a bush. He immediately tried to struggle up and preserve what dignity he had left - he must've hit his head and rolled down the hill, oh god, what if someone had seen him? - but the seven thousand exceptionally sharp branches digging into every inch of his body prompt him to lie still instead.<p>

_Stay calm_, he chastened himself, exhaling shakily and trying to figure out which way was up. _Breathe. Assess the situation. And remove the thorns from your ass, as soon as possible_.

A moment or so of very careful wiggling and he was free, exceptionally rumpled and scratched up, but primarily unharmed. The sun was high in the sky by now - Kurt instinctively reached up, probing around under his hair for a lump of some sort, because he must've been out for _hour_s - and there was an odd sound in the air. It took Kurt a couple moments to identify it for what it was: silence.

"Huh." Setting his hands on his hips and looking around, Kurt could see nothing but rolling hills and forest. Not a sign of life anywhere. And the background noise he was so used to, as a city person, the honking and chatter and clattering, was entirely absent. But that was probably because he'd rolled down the side of the hill opposite from Inverness. All the noise was muted by distance.

With a sigh, Kurt absently plucked a couple twigs out of his shirt and tossed them away, turning and examining the hill. The stones stood, as looming and unnerving as ever, at the very top, and he didn't much like the idea of scaling the imposing hill and trying to pick his way down the other, steeper side. Especially if he had some sort of concussion.

So, after a hopeless attempt to brush grime off his once-crimson kilt, Kurt set out to go around the hill and perhaps find an easier way back to town. He wasn't sure if Sebastian had missed him yet - _not likely_, came the automatically disdainful thought - so there wasn't much rush. Besides, if he went straight through the woods, he'd find a road sooner or later. He vaguely recalled driving past trees on the way into town.

Neater trees, though. The wood he was attempting to navigate was a good deal wilder and more overgrown than he recalled. Kurt stumbled more than once in his knee-high boots, over tree roots and boulders and, once, over something furry and brown that ran as soon as he stepped on it. Stumbling back, fumbling wildly for something to steady himself, Kurt crashed through a wall of foliage and landed hard on his back.

The wind entirely knocked out of him, adding to the array of bruises he'd already sustained from falling down the hill, Kurt lay still for a moment, moaning. Scotland had been a bad idea after all. Next vacation was goin to be somewhere absurdly developed, with modern conveniences never more than an arm's reach away.

_And no bushes,_ Kurt mentally resolved, closing his eyes and ignoring the fact that he was probably getting all sorts of creepy-crawlies in his hair. _Not a single damn bush anywhere_.

After a couple moments, he became aware of the feeling of hard-packed earth underneath himself - he'd stumbled upon a primitive sort of road, then, not the bumpy forest floor, good. He'd follow it as soon as his head stopped that awful pounding.

But the pounding didn't stop, not even when Kurt forced his eyes open and sat up, looking around, covered in reddish dust from the dirt road he was sprawled upon. It wound through the trees, curving around a bend a long way ahead, a bend around which was fast approaching a huge cloud of dust stirred up by -

Kurt gave a gasp, rolling off the road mere seconds before the thundering hooves of five or six fast-approaching horses trampled him. The sight of them - majestic, wild-eyed, manes and tails full of brambles and tangles, nothing like the well-groomed, docile horses he'd seen pulling wagons along the smoothly paved roads in Inverness - left Kurt dumbstruck.

Though, once he'd managed to glance up, no more so than the sight of their riders. Half a dozen men, burly and hulking, long-bearded giants straight out of a storybook, hooting and hollering, all of them wearing the traditional garb of -

"Highlanders," Kurt whispered, rising up on his elbows, jaw dropping a little, wondering wildly if he was witnessing some sort of historical reenactment. Heedless of his presence, the riders circled their horses, talking rapidly in Scottish accents so thick that Kurt could only understand a handful of words - "Went tha'way" "Hurry up" "This way" "Find 'im".

Realizing suddenly that they were looking for someone (him, perhaps?), Kurt started to struggle out from the bush he'd rolled into, hoping that they could at least point him in the right direction, if not give him a ride home. But no sooner had he gotten up to his knees, than a pair of hands shot out of the brambles right behind him, muffling his startled yelp and yanking him back into the bushes.

Kurt instinctively tried to kick out, fighting against the hand over his mouth and the arm locked across his chest, giving an indignant and unintelligible series of insults. But whoever was holding him laughed suddenly - and it was familiar, so familiar, that the sound of it froze Kurt stock still. He was so startled he was scarcely aware of the group of men riding off, until his captor gave a relieved sigh and loosened their grip.

"That was close. What were you trying to do anyways, get yourself speared?"

That voice. Kurt twisted away, scrambling back and staring at the speaker. "Bas?" he stammered, knowing he was wrong even as he said it. This man was tanner, a bit taller, with long hair that just hit the collar of his muddied red coat. But the smirk, the arched eyebrow was so much like Sebastian's that Kurt couldn't help but doubt himself.

"Have we met, then?" the man asked, voice accented - British, that was a British accent, but Sebastian wasn't British. Pulling a handkerchief from some hidden pocket, he absently mopped grime off his face (_Sebastian's_ face), giving Kurt a frankly appreciative gaze (also very much like Sebastian). "Hm. I feel like I would remember you. Was it that inn just past the border, the one run by the woman who smelt of onions?" When he was met with a blank, incredulous stare, he shrugged, tucking the handkerchief back into his sleeve. "No, no, the boy I paid for was taller. Thinner, too."

"_Paid for?_" Kurt repeated incredulously, instinctively crossing his legs, not liking the other man's bold gaze. "I'm not a _prostitute_." Then, because he couldn't help asking: "And what do you mean, _thinner?_"

The Sebastian look-alike gave a laugh, shaking his head in amusement. "Oh, don't be sour, my pretty." He moved, then, so suddenly that Kurt didn't have time to react before he was pinned on his back, with a frankly unwelcome man on top of him, and an equally unwanted hand creeping down his side. "I like a little something to grab onto," the man purred, squeezing at Kurt's side with another too-like-Sebastian-for-comfort smirk.

"Get _off_ of m-" Kurt's indignant, red-faced demand was cut off suddenly by lips pressed against his, forceful, invading, unwanted - and yet familiar, the same shape, the same _taste_, enough to make him instinctively relax. At least until the stranger tried to stick his tongue in Kurt's mouth.

Three seconds later the British man was groaning, doubled over from a knee to the groin and Kurt was up and running, wretching as did, tearing through the brambles and bushes without a thought to where he was going. He just wanted to get away, get out, to wake _up_ from this nightmare where men in kilts rode wild stallions and British officers who looked like his husband tried to French kiss him.

Fortunately the Sebastian clone was too incapacitated to follow and, once he was certain he wasn't going to be groped unexpectedly anymore, Kurt slowed down to a walk, picking his way a bit more carefully through the trees. He'd made up his mind to try and head back towards the hill with the stones, which he could vaguely glimpse through the overgrown branches, willing to risk the steep climb. He was tired, hungry and absolutely filthy and he just wanted to sink into the claw-footed bath at the inn and soak away this bizarre morning.

The sun was sinking low in the sky by the time Kurt had found his way back through the dense forest and up the formidable hill. Only the vivid memory of what had happened the last time kept him from sitting on the overturned stone. Feet aching - these boots were made to flatter his calves, not support him whilst hiking -, Kurt slowly trudged to the peak of the hill, wiping dirt off his face and looking down at Inverness.

What he saw, however, chased all the exhaustion away, replacing it with a deep, overwhelming, bone-chilling terror. Because all he saw was pitch blackness, the streetlights and headlights from the cars, the beacon of relative civilization that Inverness had been - thoroughly extinguished.

"Oh my god..." Kurt instinctively whirled around, wondering wildly if he was just looking in the wrong direction. But nowhere he looked, no matter how he turned and strained his eyes, was the tell-tale light of a city. There weren't even the tiny pinpoints of lights streaming along the roads, showing the paths of evening cars. There was just the rolling emerald hills, turning smoky grey in the twilight and, if he strained his eyes, the dim outlines of small, crude, shack-light buildings where Inverness should be.

This was the point where Kurt would normally have a complete emotional breakdown. Fortunately he was momentarily distracted by a strange, familiar scent on the wind - frying bacon and eggs. And by the time he stumbled to the westernmost side of the hill and pinpointed the tiny, flickering light several fields and a small copse of trees away, shock had thoroughly set in.

Right. So he was either caught in the midst of a nation-wide blackout, or he was in some sort of alternate universe. But there was breakfast food being made not too far away, and not even the thought of all the empty calories in bacon and eggs could keep his stomach from growling loudly. So, smoothing his clothes instinctively but unnecessarily, Kurt started to pick his way down the hill and towards the fire, mentally composing how he would introduce himself once he got there.

He made it through "Excuse me, I'm Ku-" before the half-dozen scraggly, filthy, somewhat scantily clad (more kilts, and not with leggings underneath) leapt up and actually idrew swords on him/i. Having expected maybe hobos, or perhaps some historically accurate performers, the big rough hands grabbing him and dragging him roughly into the circle of firelight prompted Kurt to let out an embarrassingly pitchy shriek.

One of the men actually had the audacity to l_augh_ at that, which prompted the apparent ringleader - a small, slight, unbelievably grimy individual, with the longest sword Kurt had ever seen - to smack him across the back of the head. "Shut up, Sam! Don't make her mad, she looks like she bites."

"-_her?_" Kurt repeated, terror rapidly giving way to annoyance. He clearly was in no place to run anywhere, so the two massive and pungent gentlemen holding onto his arms didn't need to be so grabby.

The leader gave a cold, raspy laugh, standing and shrugging their cloak back from their face - from _her_ face; it was a woman, dark-eyed and tangle-haired, with a film of grime across her startlingly delicate features. "I dinnae know where ye come from, laddie," she purred, eyes narrowing, catlike. "But around these parts, only harlots wear colors like that." She reached out, snagging the hem of Kurt's kilt with the tip of her sword, making him shiver and squim away.

"L-Listen," Kurt stammered, trying to ignore the rising panic that threatened to choke his words and reduce him to a shivering mess. "I-I'm sorry I intruded. I'm lost a-and I was just wondering if you could point me towards the nearest to-"

"What sort of a voice is that?" It was the woman again, frowning and stepping forward, close enough so that Kurt could smell her, a wild, earthy, not strictly unpleasant scent, just _strong_. "Ye aren't a Highlander, are ye?"

Dumbstruck, Kurt slowly shook his head. The man holding his left arm frowned, turning a little and all but lifting the poor bewildered young man off his feet. "He don't look like a lobsterback either, Tana."

"I can see what he looks like!" The woman snapped, twirling her sword anxiously in one surprisingly delicate hand. Finally she sighed, sheathing the weapon and crossing her arms. "State your name and where ye're from, harlot."

Too frightened by the ominous glint in her eyes to protest the word, Kurt swallowed hard and managed, "K-Kurt...Hummel," something in him prompted him to forgo the "Smythe" part, "a-and I'm from...from New York."

"York," spat the man to his left - literally spat; the gob of saliva hit the ground inches from the toe of Kurt's boot. "I knew it. Probably a spy for the good Captain himself."

The woman didn't seem convinced, though, hand resting on the handle of her sword, an unreadable expression on her face. "Hummel, though. That's German, innit?"

Was German good? It was better than British, Kurt knew that much, so he frantically nodded. With a sigh, the dark-haired woman turned, glancing absently across the makeshift camp, which drew Kurt's gaze the same way. He hadn't noticed the small stone building to one side of the fire, almost obscured by the trees, but she seemed particularly troubled by it. Finally, with a sigh, she turned back, fixing him with the coldest, most humorless smile he'd ever seen.

"All right, then, Kurt Hummel from York," she said, somehow turning his name into an insult. "What is it ye do?"

Do? Do where? Do here in the woods? Do in general? After a moment of wordless, frantic thinking, a sudden rough shake of his arm from the Neanderthal to his left prompted Kurt to blurt out - "Doctor! I'm...I'm a doctor. In...doctor. Yes."

That seemed to be the right thing to say, for the woman took a step back, eyes flickering towards the stone shed, and the rest of the Highlanders murmured among themselves. Kurt's captors even loosened their grip, like they were worried about somehow damaging his medical credibility. Finally, the man who'd first chuckled at Kurt - Sam? Sean? Something like that - stepped forward and said in a wheedling undertone, "Tana, he's a doctor. We're desperate -"

"Not _that_ desperate," Tana interjected, eyes flashing with a look of near-disgust that was so intent that Kurt actually stumbled back.

Her companion was undeterred, continuing in that same soft voice - "Ye know what will happen if he dies. Your brother will -"

Interrupting again (and mercifully laying Kurt's panic that he was the one being spoken about to rest), Tana gestured impatiently at the shed. "Fine, fine, bring him over here. Davey, ye bring the cleanest steel you can find, ye hear me? Stick it in the fire a spell."

"Steel?" Kurt repeated as the large man who'd bruised his arm black and blue nodded and stepped away, and the much gentler Sam took his place, gently tugging him towards the shed.

Tana gave a short laugh, stepping through the space where the door should be, and kneeling down by what looked like a bundle of furs. "Ye say you're a doctor, then you're a doctor. Doctors need their instruments clean, right?" Before Kurt could question further, she pulled away the top layer of fur.

"...dear _god._" Kurt was not a religious man. But the exclamation seemed to fit. For, lying there on the dirt floor, face ashen and gleaming with sweat that plastered his dark hair to his forehead, eyes closed, right shoulder a mess of clumsy bandages, torn flesh and blood (so, so much blood, dried along his arm, matting his ripped shirt to his skin, gushing up with every involuntary movement) was a young man, not much more than a boy, who looked 3/4ths of the way dead already. Yet, as Tana brushed his damp black curls away from his forehead, he shifted, opening his eyes (bright eyes, bright gold and bright with fever) the tiniest bit and curling his dry lips into a mockery of a smile.

"Hope I aren't in Heaven yet," the gravely wounded man whispered. "Cause ye aren't no angel, Tannie." Then his gaze slowly traveled around the shed, alighting finally on Kurt's stunned, wide-eyed face. The faint smile deepened, ever-so-slightly. "Tha's better."

Tana rolled her eyes in an exaggerated manner, but her expression was stony when she glanced up at Kurt. "Here's the deal then, Kurt Hummel from York," she said, coldly, motioning for Sam to drag Kurt down to kneel next to her. "If ye are what ye say ye are, then prove it. Save this here bonny lad, and we'll let ye live. We'll even take ye to the Manor, clean ye up and send ye on your way."

Her gaze became sharper, if possible, as she leaned in and grippd Kurt's shoulder with a long-fingered, powerful hand. "But if he dies," she hissed, catching his gaze with her dark, menacing eyes. "You do too."

Kurt stared back at her for a moment, feeling cold all over, mind racing, heart thudding against his ribs. He was vaguely aware of someone shoving a small, slender dagger into his shaky hands, the tip still red from being crudely sterilized in the fire. Then, swallowing hard and turning back towards the wounded man - who'd slipped once again into unconsciousness - he took a deep breath.

_Oh my god, what the hell have I gotten myself into?_

* * *

><p>ooc: It's not easy to make Glee characters Scottish. .<p> 


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